


My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe

by thefrenchmistake



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No Angst, Post-Season/Series 01, Redemption, Shaving, There's enough of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrenchmistake/pseuds/thefrenchmistake
Summary: It had begun like all good stories begin; a war.A bright hero, a dark villain.A road to redemption.
Relationships: Nimue & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe

**Author's Note:**

> I did way too many research on shaving history with that one, and none of it made it in so enjoy my pain.

It had begun like all good stories begin; a war.

A bright hero, a dark villain.

A road to redemption.

It ends like all good stories do; a battle.

The Fey Queen wins, takes the new-found Lancelot’s hand in hers.

The story would want them to rule side by side, to protect the Fey until their last breath, to live happily ever after.

That is where the truth derails from the story.

If you go south from Dewdenn, as far as you can, you will find a forest. Its trees are centuries old, ancien remnants of an ancient religion, and talk, words long forgotten hidden by the constant wind that offers them cover from indiscreet ears. Here, every flower grows to bloom, every root knows its way to the heart of the land, every stream giggles happily in the translucent water.

Walk to the edge of the forest, and then walk further.

When the trees divide and leave place to where the Earth seems to cave in and form a place withdrawn from the world, when the river falls like so many diamonds from the height of the sky, when the sun seems to always be at its zenith, when the moon seems close enough to touch and the stars look upon this hidden patch of the universe, you will know you are in the right place.

The thatched cottage standing amidst the basin appears to be more an extension of Nature, one of her gifts, than a man-made device. Despite the remote location, the house is kept in very good condition, its windows clean and a small garden suggesting a regular and daily care. 

You will not see its inhabitants. They are protected by the gods, cloaked to humans’ eyes, and watched over by the heavens above.

You may not see them, but if you did, their contrasting picture would surprise you at first.

Her, bright in all the ways, hair either let down to her waist, or pulled up in intricate braids where flowers are scattered, pale skin often ornate with the green markings of her people.

The only marks he wears are the one under his eyes, trailing down his cheeks like blood streams. Where she is bright and inviting, he is dark and frightening. A shadow of the sun she is, following her everywhere she goes, watching as she tends to the garden, walking beside her, listening to her every word.

At first, you would be dumbstruck by this odd duo. And then, if you were lucky, you could see how he devotes himself to her, you would see how she relies on him for all things, you would hear his story when he reveals it to her, layer by layer, until he is left bare to her judgement. But she never judges. She simply awaits his agreement before taking his or hugging him.

She kisses his cheek, sometimes, and more and more she finds herself wanting to miss his cheek and land on his mouth.

But you will not see any of this.

Nimue doesn’t wish to be Queen. Now that her people are safe, that King Uther has swore an oath to protect them and relocate them, that the Church has withdrawn from their lands, there’s nothing left for a warrior Queen to fight.

She does not even wish to be a warrior anymore.

Maybe that is why she leaves, goes to Dewdenn, and then further south. The Hidden calls to her, tells her she has done all that she could for her people. It assures her she did well, and finally deserves her rest.

The Weeping Monk stays behind, but Lancelot follows. No one questions it either, and they do not even speak of it. It is an unspoken agreement, her bringing his horse to him and him packing enough food for two during their travel.

He does not question their direction either. Their time is mostly spent in silence, which they are both grateful for. It is easier that way, to understand all that happened.

Those days, and then weeks, on the road are made for accepting the past and getting rid of all the dark tethers holding them back.

Having a blade this close to his face would have never been an option, before.

Before Nimue.

She could slit his throat and he would be grateful, but he knows she would never. For some unfathomable reason, she seems as attached to him as he is to her.

“Will you stop fidgeting ?”

The words are said with just enough annoyance to make him freeze, but they’re also full of mischief and a tenderness he never thought could be directed towards him.

Yet, when Lancelot drags his gaze up, he is met with Nimue’s smile. It is the kind of smile that is soft enough to smooth the sharp stones built around his crisp heart, bright enough to burn the shadows out of his mind.

It feels like unction.

His body locks in place as she awaits his immobility.

The laying position is not among his favorites, especially not with someone bent above him.

But he’s doing penance, for a lot of things, so a bit of discomfort is the least he can bear.

Besides, having Nimue leaning so close to his face is the furthest thing from uncomfortable.

Now that his hair has grown again, to cover the red mark carved in his skull, she has taken it upon herself to cut it. _But first we’ll need to deal with that beard_ , she said with a teasing smile.

Which is how they find themselves so close, too close for him to see anything but her face and the start of her neck, close enough that her warmth blanket him, that her breath puffs against his cheek.

Lancelot does not know how to feel about that display of care and affection. He does not like it very much, this Queen lowering herself to his level, even lower, to serve him; he could never fathom Nimue serving anyone, least of all him.

“That’s better,” she whispers after another stroke. The words brush his lips, spurring a full body shiver, and Nimue’s smile grows. Although she doesn’t stop her task, he can feel her fingers tightening their hold on his chin.

“Is it ?”

Another stroke along his left cheek, another breath against his skin. Then Nimue leans back just enough so she can look him in the eye when she says :

“Very much so.”

Her movements are delicate and careful when she picks up the cloth for this purpose and wipes the remains of the soap from his chin, cheeks, and neck. She takes her time, too, as in all things nowadays. Since the war ended, it seems Nimue cannot stand the idea of making haste. All she does is purposeful, never idle, and done well. Wether it is planting new vegetables in the garden, hunting in the forest, or -to his dismay- shaving him.

Lancelot is not used to close proximity, even less when there is no danger involved.

Well. A certain kind of danger.

“Why do you care so much for my hairstyle ?”

Nimue hums, and then her fingers are tracing his close-shaven face, and breath leaves his lungs in a _whoosh_.

She does not point it out, all consumed by her skill evaluation.

“Besides you looking like an old rag, you mean ?”

Fingers travel from his chin to his forehead, brushing the bangs out of his eyes, tangling in the curls.Her eyes meet his.

“I don’t want them to take that away from you, too. Maybe some of the weight you carry can be lifted after this.”

Lancelot doubts it, but he would never dare to crush the hope blazing bright in her irises, so different from the fires that consumed flesh mounted on wooden crosses.

Those thoughts are ones he has sworn not to dwell into anymore, and so he derails their conversation.

“Where did you learn to shave ?”

Nimue leans backwards, her fingers leaving only cold absence in their wake, and straightens up. Her dress lays on her curves like a second skin. Lancelot asked her when they arrived at this piece of paradise why she stopped wearing pants and started favoring dresses. Nimue laughed and told him it was easier, and more comfortable, now that she did not have to run or fight. Watching her move now, the dress light and not hindering her gestures, he understands.

He curses it a little as well.

“My mom taught me,” she says, and then she is behind him and her fingers trail from the base of his skull to the wild curls hiding the scarred cross. “She said it was a handy skill to have, wether for any future husband, or for clearing any place that needs healing. I used to help her, and it was quite usual to shave just a part of the beard, or the head, if someone took a knife to the throat or a hit on the skull. Though my dad hated it,” she chuckles, blade starting to cut hair. “He always said that a man should take care of his own hair and beard. But then again, he had very odd ideas of what made a man.”

The gentle tilt of her voice could lull him to sleep easily, but her touch prevents it. He does not wish for her to stop talking, which is why he prompts :

“Like ?”

“Oh, all sorts of things. If you bathed more than once a week, you were not a man. If you did not know how to shoot a bow, you were not a man. A man also needed to know how to harvest, yet he could not be interested in anything botanic.”

“He seems like a very contradictory man.”

“I suppose he was,” she chuckles again, and he is glad to hear nothing but amusement and a bit of nostalgia in her voice. The pain disappeared a while ago.

“I must be glad you did not take advice from Merlin, then.”

Her laugh is a loud, wild thing that belongs to the Gods, to prayers, to miracles. Her fingers untangle his hair, skillfully trimming locks here and there. He could not care less about the result, but the sensation of the process is another story entirely.

“Having the appearance of a beggar probably helps him pass as the drunk he’s trying to convince everyone he is. I hope so, anyway. Otherwise it is just unfortunate poor skills.”

Another few silent moments, filled with the faint whisper of hair falling to the ground, of her dress’ fabric rustling, of the sound of her nails scrapping against his skull. If it weren’t for the light gushing through the window, Lancelot could almost believe it was night, with the utter quietness of the scenery.

It is something undreamt of, that this place offers him : peace. Never before had he thought the Lord would grant him this.

And maybe He didn’t. Lancelot is not so hung up on religious beliefs anymore.

“Almost done,” she tells him, breath fanning over his ear.

Breathtaking, his shiver lasts until Nimue is back before him, face inches away. She levels the curls falling on his forehead, passes her hand through his hair once, twice, until he loses count, and then she meets his gaze.

“There.”

Lancelot is most aware of the sins condemned in Church, of the way they twist your body and your mind until you cannot resist any longer.

Oh yes, Lancelot knows about sin and penance; Father Carden made sure of it. But with each day passed in Nimue’s presence, he is able to push those false assumptions in the back of his mind. And the more Nimue speaks about her life at Dewdenn, of her -their- people’s ways and traditions. He learns about what true meaning lays behind the Beltane fires, about how the Gods worshipped by the Fey aren’t the demons the Church makes them out to be, what Festivals and ceremonies are to be had in order to favor the village for a good harvest or good weather.

Lancelot learns about his people, and the more he does, the more he peels layers of shame off his skin. 

“Why do you look at me in that way ?” He once dared to ask her, and she did not even tear her gaze away from his face. She did that often, stare at him without any malice. Not that Lancelot minded.

Nimue cocked her head to the side, a picture of gentle defiance, but he could see the light pink dusting her cheeks.

“In what way ?”

It was a provocation, a jab she wished he would rise to, but he could not, because he did not have the words for it. Which was why, ever eloquent, he answered :

“That way.”

“I enjoy looking at you.”

“Why ?”

“Because you never looked at me like I was something to be scared of, like I was evil.”

That was not what he expected, and not something he wanted to hear. He used to call her Witch, hunted her, compared her to the spawn of the devil and believed it with all his heart (most of it).

And yet she gazes at him. At a loss for words, Lancelot shook his head, but Nimue was not having it.

“People called me witch, people sneered at me. I do not care what you did, we are past that. What matters to me now is that you never looked at me like you were disgusted.”

“I could never,” he interrupted, and it was the truth. Even with the Church’s teachings, he could have never looked at her bright eyes, dark hair, innocent beauty and be repelled.

By his pulsions, his desire, maybe. But not by her.

Her smile bordered on painful when she leaned forward, her hand laying on his.

“I know. I look at you because I want to, because I can. Because you have changed so much and I love looking at what you have become. Does it bother you ?”

His answer was too quick to come.

“No.”

Now, he watches her descend on him, focused like an hawk, and doesn’t do a thing to stop her. Why would he, when it’s all he’s wanted since he found her in the river ?

Why would he, when he’s seen that desire echoed in her for months ?

Lips meet lips, and Lancelot’s new hold on her waist tightens.

At first, it is like everything else between them; the first step is careful, barely-there, a timid brush and then an hesitant pressure.

Like all other firsts, it escalates quickly. Her mouth moves against his, searching a rhythm, and he won’t deny this to her either. It is easy to get lost in the push and pull of the kiss, easier still when her tongue comes into play and opens the doors.

He lets her set the rhythm, lets her shift in his lap, lets her grip turn forceful in his hair. He lets her, because he’ll always let her do as she wishes, absorb everything she is willing to give him.

This must be obvious in his restrain, because Nimue huffs against him before tearing herself from him, only until she can look him in the eye. It is more than difficult to focus on her eyes when her lips are swollen and wet and galaxies away.

“I will not break,” she tells him with that stubborn yet patient look on her face, and Lancelot recognizes it as the demand it is.

He obliges, surging forward as he grips her hair and pulls her to him so they can meet again.

He is still careful -always, always- but less gentle, least mellow.

She seems to like it. Nimue shivers in his lap, pressing closer, and when he tentatively drags his teeth on her lower lip, she moans.

Nimue moans, hot against him, and Lancelot _feels_ with a fierceness that almost knocks hims backwards. They kiss for what feels like hours, but time is meaningless in a place like this, with a woman like this, with magic in her blood and power sizzling between them. Tracing the vines on her temples is something he has taken to doing, when he dares.

No longer marks of the Devil, they’re a sign of power, and a testimony of who she is and what she has done for her people. Still, it is easy to forget that when she presses herself closer to him, when her hands burn like a collar around his jaw, when her lips let out those sounds he has never heard from her, when he can feel her thighs shiver from where they’re bracketing his.

He is the one to pull back, just to take a slow inhale, to stop himself from drifting away at the blindingly beautiful picture she makes, so close to him.

Her eyes remain closed, her breath short, but she says all the same :

“I pledge myself to you.”

His first instinctive reaction is to push her off, to exclaim she can’t do this, to yell she doesn’t know _what_ she is doing, saying, that this can never be.

It is a habit beaten into him, to think he is not worthy of the rare things he wants.

But she has taken to teaching him. Teaching him kindness did not mean weakness, teaching him the love of a God he thought he knew, teaching him of healing and patching up the cracks.

“I’m yours,” he answers, and Nimue smiles so bright Lancelot wonders if the Lord’s light has been here all this time, just within reach. Untethered, he falls into it.

There’s no telling if it will end like every other good stories, but the end is not what matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for the support I got on my previous Nimue/Lancelot fic, it was insane for me !! So here goes a fluffy, simple one-shot.   
> Tell me if this idea interests you, if you'd like other chapters like snippets of their living together before that scene, or other.   
> I love this couple, but the inspiration is a bit lacking when there's not much to go on in the first season...  
> Anyway, tell me your thoughts in the comments, leave me kudos. I hoard them.


End file.
